Killer Moves: The 4th Jolene Jackson Mystery (Jolene Jackson Mysteries) Read Online Free Page A
Author: Paula Boyd
so I could go whenever I got the nerve.
That whole situation felt weird in every way possible. And as much as I hated to admit it, I almost wished Lucille could go with me. “Oh my God,” I said, out loud and to myself. “I haven’t been in Texas even a half a day and I've already completely lost my mind.”
I grabbed the phone, fished around in my billfold for the attorney’s card. Perhaps if I told him it was a matter of life and death—my rapid loss of brain function certainly supported that theory—he might try a little harder to find a loophole to get me un-inherited, like maybe giving it all away. Why couldn’t I just donate everything to a legitimate nonprofit organization with a real mission and let some overseer board somewhere deal with it? The place would make a great “scared straight” kind of boot camp for troubled teens. It certainly scared the crap out of me.
Or what about giving it to Greenpeace? That would be a hoot for about fifty different reasons, none of which were because it would bring either green or peace to the region, although both were desperately needed. On the plus side, if there were any horny toads left in existence, the enviro-militia would have no problem hauling out the big guns to protect them. “Ha!” The dichotomy of that thought was mildly amusing, this being Texas and all, but the half-hearted chuckle that escaped my lips was really just a nervous reflex. The reality of what my life was about to become terrified me, which was why I was still grasping at straws to find a way out. So, I called the attorney.
“Good morning, Vanderhorn Carpenter Vanderhorn Smith, Sheila speaking, how may I help you?”
Wow, say that three times fast. “Good morning, Sheila, this is Jolene Jackson and I”
“Jolene? Jolene Jackson?”
Oh, geez, really? “Yes, this is Jolene.” I paused for effect. “Jolene Jackson.” Yes, I was being a smartass.
Apparently though, I was the only one who noticed, because within seconds, the law office’s primary attorney, one Edmond G. Vanderhorn, III, Esquire, came on the line to speak to me, personally, immediately and enthusiastically. “Jolene!” he said chummily, calling me by my first name and thankfully not repeating it. “Good to hear from you. Ready to get this thing going?”
No, I was not, but we exchanged pleasantries—or unpleasantries—anyway.
Vanderhorn was much cheerier than in our earlier communications, possibly because he thought I had accepted my mission. I admired his confidence and optimism, but I certainly didn’t share it. His big-bucks spin did not convince me I should be dancing a jig as if I’d won the lottery. Best I could tell, what I’d won was a front row seat in hell.
Still, despite playing the devil in my personal nightmare, Vanderhorn seemed nice enough. He’d been Bob Little’s lawyer for decades and really did seem sincere about wanting to do what he could to help me with the details of the estate—just not getting me free of them. He insisted I call him Ed since we were apparently going to be spending a lot of time together. He also insisted I get to his office as soon as possible so we could get started immediately.
I did have to wonder, though, why an attorney who could command $400 an hour—in Redwater Falls, no less—would instantly drop everything and be available to meet with me at whatever time I named. Granted, this was going to be a long and arduous process and would require a great deal of his professional and billable time to resolve… Yes, I’d just answered my own question and it had probably cost me a couple hundred bucks.
* * * * *
The double garage beside Lucille’s house had a room that extended across the entire back. The first part of the storage area had been my dad’s old workshop, and the rest had been my playhouse. I unlocked the door, stepped inside and flipped on the old light switch. A single bulb in the low ceiling flooded the area with light. My dad’s
That whole situation felt weird in every way possible. And as much as I hated to admit it, I almost wished Lucille could go with me. “Oh my God,” I said, out loud and to myself. “I haven’t been in Texas even a half a day and I've already completely lost my mind.”
I grabbed the phone, fished around in my billfold for the attorney’s card. Perhaps if I told him it was a matter of life and death—my rapid loss of brain function certainly supported that theory—he might try a little harder to find a loophole to get me un-inherited, like maybe giving it all away. Why couldn’t I just donate everything to a legitimate nonprofit organization with a real mission and let some overseer board somewhere deal with it? The place would make a great “scared straight” kind of boot camp for troubled teens. It certainly scared the crap out of me.
Or what about giving it to Greenpeace? That would be a hoot for about fifty different reasons, none of which were because it would bring either green or peace to the region, although both were desperately needed. On the plus side, if there were any horny toads left in existence, the enviro-militia would have no problem hauling out the big guns to protect them. “Ha!” The dichotomy of that thought was mildly amusing, this being Texas and all, but the half-hearted chuckle that escaped my lips was really just a nervous reflex. The reality of what my life was about to become terrified me, which was why I was still grasping at straws to find a way out. So, I called the attorney.
“Good morning, Vanderhorn Carpenter Vanderhorn Smith, Sheila speaking, how may I help you?”
Wow, say that three times fast. “Good morning, Sheila, this is Jolene Jackson and I”
“Jolene? Jolene Jackson?”
Oh, geez, really? “Yes, this is Jolene.” I paused for effect. “Jolene Jackson.” Yes, I was being a smartass.
Apparently though, I was the only one who noticed, because within seconds, the law office’s primary attorney, one Edmond G. Vanderhorn, III, Esquire, came on the line to speak to me, personally, immediately and enthusiastically. “Jolene!” he said chummily, calling me by my first name and thankfully not repeating it. “Good to hear from you. Ready to get this thing going?”
No, I was not, but we exchanged pleasantries—or unpleasantries—anyway.
Vanderhorn was much cheerier than in our earlier communications, possibly because he thought I had accepted my mission. I admired his confidence and optimism, but I certainly didn’t share it. His big-bucks spin did not convince me I should be dancing a jig as if I’d won the lottery. Best I could tell, what I’d won was a front row seat in hell.
Still, despite playing the devil in my personal nightmare, Vanderhorn seemed nice enough. He’d been Bob Little’s lawyer for decades and really did seem sincere about wanting to do what he could to help me with the details of the estate—just not getting me free of them. He insisted I call him Ed since we were apparently going to be spending a lot of time together. He also insisted I get to his office as soon as possible so we could get started immediately.
I did have to wonder, though, why an attorney who could command $400 an hour—in Redwater Falls, no less—would instantly drop everything and be available to meet with me at whatever time I named. Granted, this was going to be a long and arduous process and would require a great deal of his professional and billable time to resolve… Yes, I’d just answered my own question and it had probably cost me a couple hundred bucks.
* * * * *
The double garage beside Lucille’s house had a room that extended across the entire back. The first part of the storage area had been my dad’s old workshop, and the rest had been my playhouse. I unlocked the door, stepped inside and flipped on the old light switch. A single bulb in the low ceiling flooded the area with light. My dad’s
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